In each experiment, 12 [normal male university] subjects (280 total; ages 21.7 ± 1.5 year) walked in and viewed a forest or city area. On the first day, six subjects were sent to a forest area, and the others to a city area. On the second day, each group was sent to the other area as a cross-check. Salivary cortisol, blood pressure, pulse rate, and heart rate variability were used as indices.

The study has its limitations and flaws, of course. All studies do. One can argue that 12 subjects for each forest may not be sufficient. Or that only males with no co-morbidities were included—for females may have responded differently, and so on. One can argue, too, that while the decreases in cortisol and other objective parameters may be statistically significant, they remain surrogate markers for stress and do not directly measure it.

But the study interests me because of three things:

First, that it was done at all; second, that it points to the interplay between environment and health—something we already know based on observation (people in Manila are, for example, more prone to anger and exhaustion than those in Koronadal); and third, that I really like forests.

Yes, the forest more than the beach—and that's my segue to the next part of this post.

Throughout the series, Mizutani’s abstracted use of blur cushions his subjects, painting a simultaneously idyllic and voyeuristic scene. The viewer takes on the role of the forest itself, and of the creatures that live in it: we peer from behind, or from within, a bush as an oblivious couple strolls by, and we dip over a man’s shoulder as birds gather around his weathered palm.

A sampling:

One wonders where the nearest forest in Manila is—and if it's bathe-able.